The Death of Etienne and The Fall of Saint Michel
by LucioleFirefly
Summary: There is a bond that binds them unwillingly, that will not be severed until the death of one or the other. A study of that tragic and strange connection between the convict Valjean and the policeman Javert in two parts, from the Gypsy's early years in Toulon in "The Death of Etienne" to his eventual fate in the Seine in "The Fall of Saint Michel". Please, please review!
1. Introduction: The Death of Etienne

"If a soul is left in darkness sins will be committed.

The guilty one is not he who commits the sin,

but he who causes the darkness."

-Victor Hugo "Les Miserables"

Tone of twelve in the great gaol of Toulon.

He strides like a shadow, like a wisp of a phantom, back straight, arms crossed, the dark of his eyes and all identifying features hidden by the hat that he wears low across his forehead. His chin is tucked into his cravat as if in protection against the cold, his posture rigid and erect and almost arrogant with that humble arrogance that is so remarkable in fanatics. The stones upon which he treads are his, and his boots are thin enough in the soles that he could have walked blind through the treacherous pathways of Toulon and known exactly where it was that he stood. This walkway, this archway, this cell, this ground, all of it belongs under the sovereign power of the Law, and as the Law's servant, they are also his. He knows every passageway and every hiding place, as if Toulon is in him as he is in Toulon, and there is no escaping the blackguard, the phantom.

How many have started at that shadow, that unstoppable tread that outraces even Death itself? When the earth is at a boil, and Death has long since died in his perpetual slumber, still would those survivors clinging to life on the edge of Humanity's failings hear the tread of those leaden boots upon the flagstones of Toulon. Those that he seeks out wait, for few would run, understanding the terrier's obsession for the chase that dwells within the heart of the phantom, and the contrary feline pleasure in outstretching his claws just far enough that his prey would bolt for the clear. It was then, after the starting, and perhaps then, when his prey was run to ground, that his quarry would glimpse the details of that sinister figure by moonlight. His back would be straight and he would be silhouetted with the faint light of the stars behind him, the stars that watched so much, and said so little. The dark eyes would flash in that face that now shone with the terrible gentility of an angel, and the cudgel that he carries would seem not a cudgel but a sword, sweeping down to smite the wicked of the earth.

Woe be to the poor creatures that saw him then.

This is the way of the phantom, the wolf that bares its throat before the altar of the truth of Man. But even this man, the most loyal guard-dog and the purest of miscreants, retains the wildness in his blood.

And even he, for all his striving, will fall.

Better then, to have seen him in the day. In the day, he is a still a gypsy child, thin for his age, upright, and of stone. His eyes are steady but not a little afraid when he thinks no one is watching him. The best of the convicts remember how he was at the first in Toulon, and how his name had been Etienne. His strikes had been half-hearted, then. But something in the gypsy boy had hardened, and his first name had been forgotten, tossed away like a coat that he had no use for. The strikes that he gave now were strikes to the deserving and he counted them in a measured tone devoid of either mercy or hate.

The lash would fall regardless if the crime had been committed, and it would fall without the sting of hatred behind it. Twenty lashes and then the whip would be withdrawn, and he would fetch water for the recumbent himself, not out of fondness but out of necessity.

They must keep them alive in this hell before their procession into the next one.

First the lash, and then the water, and finally the makeshift infirmary, if he had grievously mistaken his force. But that happened rarely, and through the hatred and the fear that made them little better than animals some of the convicts began to bear him a kind of grudging respect.

For he is fair.

He is the balancer of the scales. He does not lie, and he does not tolerate the tellers of lies. He joins no guards in their carousing, is mediate in his punishment, and trustworthy in his actions. He does only what the Law commands, whether that is for good or for ill, and that rebellious heart that pulsates beneath his uniform is besides the matter. The Law is his saviour, love, and God. What does it matter what views he might possess in that most servile of hearts? What does it matter what the gypsy boy thinks good or thinks ill? He is not an authority on the nature of good and evil, nor is he even educated. All of what he considers his meagre gifts are laid out for a single purpose, that he might serve the Law.

But what truly of this gypsy boy, this boy that becomes the phantom? What remnants of this fearful, loving heart exists when he has run his prey to ground?

Embody again those trembling wretches that see the demon, that foaming hell-hound with the tread of Death himself, close in upon them. Remember again that lupine smile, and those eyes that are serene as the moon, as an innocent Madonna, in their convictions. What traces of Etienne could you find? There, in the darkness, the glimpses of that face, revealing itself from shadow like the flash of a fish in the deep-a nose, wide and flattened like a muzzle of a beast, a structured jaw, a forbidding brow-a ghastly vision! But the eyes-his eyes are always so lost before the cudgel comes down, as if for an instant he remembers what he was, and what he has become.

Etienne is dead.

So it is Javert then, the gypsy of Toulon.

It may have surprised the hapless wretches that he catches at their sport, but he is still a man, and like a man retires and sleeps. Not a prisoner save for one, much later in his life, would have confessed that they thought of him outside of his duties at all-if you would have asked an average prisoner where the gypsy retired, he would have expressed incredulity, thinking perhaps that he vanishes into air, or disappears into the stones. What else would such a creature do when there was no longer any use for him? He is not any manner of man, but a phantom, an elemental force. Who knew where Death hangs up his scythe after the evening's reaping is done? Where then, does a mountain seek to lay its head?

Observe there as the huntsman throws open the door, returning from his night shift in Toulon. He is tall and broad-shouldered, and upon the cudgel there is a matting of hair, no doubt from some hapless head. In his other hand, he carries his hat, which is battered but well cared for, and his dark hair, tied fiercely to the back of his neck, gleams like the head of a seal breaking water. It has been raining, and the greatcoat is soaked through, drops of water sparkling in the wool. The dark eyes are shrouded, his posture erect. There, with the rain behind him, he might be some immovable Titan, or some unknowable Angel Michel, back from the edge of the world and retribution.

Observe closer, as the figure steps into the dim room and begins to light a candle, which spreads its feeble light over his surroundings. It is a spartan room containing only the essentials: a bed, a trunk at its foot for storing belongings, a desk, a chair, an end-table and off to the corner, a washbasin and mirror. All of this furniture is somewhat worst for wear-the trunk is scoured in several different places, the chair leans precariously-but it has all been scrubbed to the point of fanaticism and gleams tiredly in the light of the narrow window and candle . The door has been shut behind him, all pretense and all masks have been set away. The broad shoulders sag with exhaustion, and the hands as they grip the candle tremble.

He is a man again.

The phantom-turned-mortal places the candle by the side of his bed upon the end-table. He stands with his back facing the door, and removes his boots and his greatcoat, taking several things from its pockets which he puts methodically, one by one, upon his desk. Here is a ledger, with the names and information of the convicts under his care written neatly, and a stick of writing lead. Here is a small wooden snuff-box, a gift from a guard who had inexplicably taken a liking to him, which he places beside the ledger. Finally, he removes from his pockets a handsome brass pocket-watch and he places this beside the snuff-box. Finished, he folds the greatcoat and drapes it over the trunk to dry.

He readies himself for bed, folding the rest of his sodden clothes to dry in the air as well, and, in a night-shirt, his hair untied, unfolds the single blanket and crawls into its warmth. Adjusting himself until his position is perfect, he at last closes his eyes and falls into a restless, troubled sleep.

You have been granted a closer look than any other of the Angel Saint Michel, the plague of hypocrites, the phantom of Toulon.

Tell yourself, then, that this is not a man.

He moves often in his sleep, and his dreams are tumultuous and often frightening. There are times he growls in garbled speech, words that sound like the snarling of fighting dogs. He is fighting, even here, in the safety of his chambers, to be recognized, to be more than the gypsy who must speak with soft voice and softer step, to be placed in his ambition and promoted for it. Sometimes, he cries out in his sleep, and that face that is so implacable by day and so ominous by night twists in a pain that can never be seen nor understood.

But sometimes, sometimes he dreams of something else entirely.

Sometimes he even smiles, and by that smile, becomes an innocent again.

So not a man yet. A boy.

But what will become of this boy of Toulon? Sometimes he shouts in his sleep, and sometimes he smiles.

There is a gypsy boy in Toulon and tonight, he is screaming.

Someday, that boy will remember what he dreams.

Tomorrow, he will try to forget.


	2. In which Javert converses with 24601

Morning in the gaol of Toulon.

He woke early, as his training and natural proclivities dictated, and with military precision set about to organizing his surroundings. There, the desk was pushed further to the wall, the tilting chair before it, and his clothes were shaken out and flattened with the broad blade of his hand. A sigh of exasperation rumbled in his chest-the necessity of a laundress sooner than later was sketched in every wrinkle of the fabric- and he put last night's outfit aside in favor of a fresh shirt and trousers. Thus dressed, he walked slowly to the washbasin, splashed his face with cold water, and proceeded to shave. For an instant, razor drawn, his gaze was drawn unwillingly to his reflection in the mirror-to the dark eyes and the dark hair that spilled over his shoulders, blending in well with his caramel skin that only now had paled for the encroaching winter.

Under that intense scrutiny, many men have quailed, but a man cannot run from himself.

A minuscule expression of disgust ranted and roiled in the surface of his eyes, but he was not aware of it. Finished, he placed aside the razor and took up a waiting ribbon, tying back his hair with a final savage twist, as if to renounce the Gypsy in him that sought to creep in through the dark of his skin and the shape of his eyes.

He did not look in the mirror again.

Straightening, he put on and buttoned his greatcoat and moved to the desk. Into the pocket of the greatcoat went the ledger with the stick of writing lead. Into the other pocket went the snuffbox, and after a second of hesitation, the handsome pocket-watch. He reached for his hat and placed it upon his head so that it was perfectly parallel to the collar of his coat.

With a firm push, he opened the door, and left his room and his humanity behind him.

At last, he was Javert again and he would not remember his dreams.

His mind was too occupied with the stone quarries that he watches in the day. Although it is loud, and smells of sweat and desperation, he does not hate the quarries. The quarries, when run properly, reflect his ordered mind. There is always the grunts of the men, the strikes of the hammers, the burst of the rocks, and when the rocks are cast into their smaller parts, there will be new rocks, just as when Toulon breaks down a convict, there will always be new convicts. The wolf of the day eclipses the wolf of the day before.

The winter sunlight glinted off the white rocks and hurt his eyes, but he did not look away from his charges. Sometimes he would step forward, and the whip that he had traded in for his cudgel would lick out like the tongue of a serpent. Murderer, hissed the whip as it landed squarely on the back of an old man that could barely remember the crime that had condemned him. Liar, it whispered, as it insidiously burrowed into the flesh of an emaciated convict that did not dare to lift his head.

It falls only on those who fall behind, for that is the will and the dictate of the Law. The convicts will work. If they will not work, they will be punished.

Thief.

The whip hesitated for a barest instant, and then it struck, cutting into the flesh of a convict that was kneeling in the dust, his eyes far away and empty. The man shuddered, preoccupied and distracted, and did not move again until the whip cut into his flesh a second time. At that second strike, he raised his head and turned to look at the Gypsy-that distant figure in his polished boots and coat that is too large for him- and said nothing. He stared. After a long moment, he stood, and began again the work, using one broad shoulder to dislodge another boulder so he could get at the remnants. The steady fall of his hammer sounded again, and all was at peace in the quarries of Toulon.

Nearly all.

Javert stood, for an instant, duty forgotten. There is nothing here of note, he thought firmly, his gaze fixed on the back of the convict before him, the convict that had dared to look him in the eye, but said nothing. His head was bowed as he chipped at the rock, his uniform in tatters. Javert had no way of knowing, but the convict had traded in his uniform to a younger man who suffered easily from the cold. The shirt that he wore after this charity was flimsy from wear and the Gypsy could see where the lash had struck him and brought thin blood to the surface. The convict hesitated ever so often, as if the work pained him, and then soldiered on, his features hidden behind filthy curtains of hair.

The Law dictates that there must be no time when the convicts might rest unless it is granted. This man was violating that law, and although it is a small law, violation of one law leads to violation of them all.

With these convictions behind him, the Gypsy raised his arm as if to strike him again, but the memory of the man's eyes, turned up to his, stayed him.

Was this mercy?

The eyes of the convict was a warm brown, and beneath the fear and the misery, Javert thought that he could sense a intelligent mind, if only the intelligence of a beast for cunning. That made him dangerous. It was the expression of those eyes that caused him to notably hesitate, this man that hesitated at nothing. He had expected fear, rage, hatred of the institution and by that hatred of himself, Javert. But he saw nothing of hatred in the convict's eyes. An animal's fear to be struck again, sorrow, desperation, but not hatred. And beyond that, a unforgettably human emotion had danced in that wide brown gaze, something that Javert recognized but could never understand.

Pity.

The Gypsy boy with the hard face and the frightened eyes sought to pin him under his stare.

Why do you stop? Why bring harm upon yourself?

The convict in turn, patiently regarded him.

My strength is sapped. Would you prod a corpse to make it dance?

An angry flash of eyes in return, and the Gypsy raised his lash.

Do you understand nothing? You are ceasing work, you are breaking the law-

Whose la-

The lash struck, hitting with a dull thud against the insurgent's back.

You are a boy, those warm eyes conveyed as the spasms subsided, as if in weary astonishment. A boy.

I am your superior. You will listen when I issue an order. You are a prisoner-

Yes. I am a prisoner. But listen well, M. Javert.

The faintest look of pity, and the convict climbed to his feet.

Do you think, the brown eyes whispered, that I am the only prisoner?

The lash struck out again, and this time, the convict did not respond at all. Authority settled into the heart of the Gypsy, dark and sweet. He lowered the whip and strode over to the prisoner, placing his heavy hand on one broad shoulder. Despite the toll of the convict's physical labor, the flesh beneath Javert's hand was freezing and his eyes were closed. Concern, alien and unpleasant, rose like bile in back of his throat.

"Why do you disobey me, " he questioned in a low voice, and tightened his grip on the convict's shoulder to garner some response. The convict, feeling the short nails dig into his flesh, winced, but did not reply. "You will not disobey me," Javert stated softly, and for an instant, that sense of concern flickered and faded.

This is a criminal. A criminal who is consciously mocking his guardian, and therefore the Law. He will-he must- pay for his insubordination.

He shook the convict with a roughness that spoke of desperation and at last the man showed signs of life. The eyes of the convict opened, and they were filled with a terrible peace at his predicament. He was a man who had gone far. He would not go further.

"My hands have been cut upon the rocks," he replied calmly, and raised those same hands for Javert's inspection."My shirt is thin and does not keep out the cold. I have worked as long as I am able. I can work no longer."

Stunned, Javert listened to this listing.

This man, he thought fiercely-this convict-

"You are using your injuries as an excuse to plan your escape," Javert snarled, latching gratefully onto this sudden inspiration. "You have attempted an escape before and were granted five years for it. What would possess me to think that you would not try again?"

The convict, incredibly, smiled. The skin about his lips had begun to turn blue.

"You mean, lie?" he asked him gently.

"You are a convict."

"You mean, run?"

"You are a convict."

Valjean wearily shook his head. "Then you will have to strike me, Javert-"

"I will n-you will not address-."

The convict's head lolled to the side, and he collapsed into the startled arms of the Gypsy.

Javert knelt with him awkwardly, hating the feel of the convict's head against his shoulder. This man, as much as Javert would have preferred it, had not entirely been creating falsities. Whatever his intentions, he was clearly suffering from the cold, and Toulon had lost five men since the low temperatures began.

Javert saw no reason to lose another.

This little scene, however, had caught the attention of the other guards, who were curious at the mockery of the pieta on display. Javert had no wish to harm the convict without need, but he was aware of the appearance of this protection. Unable to lift him further by himself, he lowered the convict as gently as he dared and turned to another of his contemporaries.

"Take this man to the infirmary," he instructed swiftly. "As soon as he can stand, I want him back in his place at the quarries."

His business done, he watched two guards roughly manhandle the unconscious figure, redistributing his weight. After they were out of sight, he dug into his pocket and removed the ledger and the stick of writing lead. "What was his number?" he questioned the guard beside him, who had begun issuing a report of his own.

"Valjean."

"His number," Javert stated again with infinite patience.

24601.

He would not think of the convict again until later, when one again would be thrown into the path of the other.

But the convict would think of him.

The convict would think of him enough for the both of them.


	3. In which Valjean devises an escape

Javert had not been entirely wrong when he had accused Valjean, for we shall now call him nothing else, of considering escape, but it was despite his injuries, not because of them. Valjean, "the Jack", so called because his legendary strength could level boulders that no other man could lift, was not yet so desperate, but his patience had been fraying. Five years wasted in the quarries at Toulon, five years of the blinding sun and the strike of hammer upon stone. Five years that he could never regain, and five years left to go and he was chilled by the certainty in the Gypsy's eyes.

The Gypsy. Yes.

The Gypsy was still a newcomer to Toulon, but had already begun to climb the ranks of the guards at an alarming speed. He took the shifts that the other guards would never contemplate, and this had made him popular in the way that cool men are made popular, when a man is useful but never liked. In the morning, those boots that shined like mirrors without fail, despite mud, despite sweat, despite rain, would be the first sound heard by convict and guardsman alike, never quick, never halting, ever patient. So too, would the relentless step of the phantom be the last thing heard outside the cells before the strike of twelve, as that dark, strange figure turned the corner to his quarters.

Yes, the Gypsy was dangerous, in the way that eager young men are so often dangerous. It was beyond keenness, beyond a sense of morals, beyond a desire for a supper and a warm bed. It was as if Toulon had been created for such a man, as if he had been born into a uniform that was too small for him.

But, Valjean considered, one so young...

The cold mask was not as impenetrable as the young guardsman thought, he hadn't the experience for it. Too many saw the broad shoulders and impassive face, and turned away shudderingly, as men may do when they face a tiger. But there was something in the eyes that was not entirely extinguished, a kind of doubt that was too often crushed by the intolerable force of will. It was a child's look, and Valjean had seen it often. I am the Law, those steely eyes might flash, when the moon was high and his prey was run to ground. But there in the quarries, they whispered a different sentiment, although the words broadcasted were always the same.

But time would take care of that. Years more in Toulon would harden the young man even further, and that glimmer of uncertainty would be drenched in the cool fires of his conviction. There would be nothing left. Nothing to reason with. Nothing to mourn. The first time the boy had entered into the prison, his hat had slipped over his ears and the hand on the cudgel trembled. Where was that boy now?

It would make it much harder then, what he had to do.

Valjean turned his mind to the Gypsy once more, though this time in a far more practical bent. He, Valjean, must attempt to escape again. With his health in such a precarious state, they would not be expecting it of him, none save the Gypsy. Some of the other convicts had banded together, and with the money that they had managed to smuggle into Toulon had pooled a small sum to bribe a guard. The guards were paid only so much to watch the cells, they would take a larger sum to turn their backs for one night. But the Gypsy-Javert-would ruin everything, and Valjean feared this far more than the waiting lash, the killing cold.

But there was hope, even so.

He had been watching him carefully for many months with an eye to escape, and thought that he knew the manner of this man. He could outpace him yet, even as the situation seemed dire...but this was a man that was methodical and precise, no stone would be unturned, no hiding place left unexposed. He would make no foolish mistakes. This was a man that could not be bargained, bribed, or pleaded with-Valjean had watched many a convict convicted at the dock beaten severely as an example to the letter of the law under Javert's steady, shielded gaze. The single advantage to dealing with the Gypsy was his tendency for solitude. Most guards travelled and worked in pairs, the better to sweeten the work they performed, when time drew out like a blade.

The Gypsy was always alone.

Valjean had observed him in the quarries for as long as he dared, and had noted the distance that he placed consciously between the other guards and himself. When the young man had come to Toulon, many of the other guards had been taken in by his youth and determination and had attempted to befriend him, but not one of those flimsy attempts had succeeded. One by one, they had been driven away, some by his fierceness, some by his coldness, but in the end, he was left to his own devises and he seemed to prefer it that way. This was preferable as well for their ragged band of escapee convicts-whilst the Gypsy on his own was a formidable specimen, a man alone with convicts grown bold by desperation could easily be outmatched.

If it came down to it, Valjean thought firmly, and then shook his head-when it came down to it, the Gypsy would not be saved by the strength of his convictions.

With that troubling thought in mind, Valjean opened his eyes at last and noted his surroundings. He was in the makeshift infirmary, aching and covered by a moth-eaten blanket. Valjean could not know that it as only by the insistence of Javert that he was not thrown to heal within his cell. The events of the hours before had never left, but now were clarified, and the convict examined what had come before. He had frozen at his work, his circulation sluggish, his hands shaking. Suddenly, the idea of further toil had seemed impossible, his strong body had betrayed him. The Gypsy had beaten him for slowing, but he was unable to respond. The Gypsy had spoken to him-what did he say? Valjean could not remember the words, but had expected the lash to fall again. It never did. He could have died of exposure at those gleaming feet-but he had been saved, was hauled unceremoniously to the infirmary and watched with resentful eyes for a time, waiting for him to take to his feet again. The Gypsy had gone, vanished like smoke, but he may have saved the life of a convict.

For what purpose?

They must keep them alive in this hell before their procession into the next one.

Javert had saved him from that horror for a greater fall-but that was a dog's thought, and Valjean shook it away.

He lay, drifting in and out of an unconscious stupor, until the pain from the lash-wounds stirred him.

There were stars behind the bars when the convicts came.

The party numbered five-men who had pooled the money for a new recruit to loosen their chains, who had escaped the gaoler and the devil only to find another of their kind. They had stepped into an empty infirmary-Valjean had been alone-and was chained securely to his cot. The guards had thought their supervision a waste. 24601 would die or live as was his fate. Why observe the motionless stupor of an aging convict?

It was what Valjean, with this newest of plans, had been counting on.

The eyes of the men, these most ragged of soldiers, were flat with fear. Only one of them, the youngest, had any manner of weapon, a small blade that either had been borrowed or stolen, Valjean did not know which. The rest were armed only with what wits they retained, and the natural camouflage of their filth.

So it was to be, a shirt for each man, and one blade for six.

They were shivering already.

Valjean rolled his head to the side, watching as the youngest man, their ringleader, solemnly unlocked and undid his shackles. The keys. There would either would be a very foolish guard or a dead one lying in the cells of Toulon that night. Freed, he sat up slowly and massaged his wrists. The blanket slid to his waist, and as wretchedly thin as it was, he ached all the more for its absence.

No matter. There was work that had to be done, and a flight from the Law warmed the blood of any man.

He would see it well begun.


	4. In which six convicts meet an obstacle

The young man, with advice grudgingly taken from Valjean, had planned well. The line of convicts moved swiftly and quietly, using the natural cover of darkness and their intimate knowledge of the passageways to their advantage.

With such concerns out of mind, Valjean was finally granted a chance to lift his head. The stars looked down upon the convicts with serene indifference, shining out from the void, as if they could not aid them if they would. Occasionally, one of the party would falter in the cold, and Valjean and his fellows would run their hands briskly over the unfortunate's arms and legs to stimulate circulation until the man could move on. Valjean himself was near to collapse from exhaustion. There was something in him that had been lacking, however, in the hours before at the quarries, something that straightened the his shoulders and powered his step. Perhaps it was that freedom was so near, they were almost to the gates. Perhaps it was that he could not let the younger men see him falter, knowing that they looked to him, afraid. Perhaps it was the remnants of his pride, one could never be sure.

He pressed on.

It was the youngest man of the group that halted them, holding up one hand for silence. They were in the closest passageway to the outside gates and the party stopped, fearfully, gratefully. It had been such a quiet night, they thought, without knowing that they thought this, unexpectedly so. They were a pack of feral curs, cringing at every noise, at every shadow, in every movement seeing that dread form materializing from the stones. The men closed in tightly together and faced forward to every direction, their hearts hammering, their eyes dark with terror. After a moment, they heard the sound that the youngest man had guessed, the steady tread of polished boots as they turned unhurriedly towards the overhang under which they crouched.

Chaos won out over impeccable planning, the men began to scatter, their beleaguered minds ill-equipped to consider anything through a mist of blind panic. Desperately, Valjean attempted to keep them together, here his hand grasping at a tattered shirt, there at a coat-tail, but the men would not be constrained. Only the youngest man, shivering and out of his head with terror, remained, holding his hand out to Valjean, pleading with him with his eyes. The footsteps had drawn, slowly, inexorably closer, they would have little time. Then there would be the lash, pain, retribution, years upon years, the light, the hammer, the quarries-but not yet-still-the gates.

Freedom.

He reached out to the young man-and heavy tread of their pursuer had stopped then, all together.

Javert had found them.

Valjean could sense him behind him, solid, unwavering, silent-a mountain that could not crumble, a man that would not be swayed. The ordeal settling upon the remaining convicts as an intolerable weight. There was nothing then that could be done-nowhere to run to that he would not follow-no where to hide that he would not find. Perhaps it was better this way, Valjean considered, exhausted, to give up the fight, to turn back to the schedule, to the life that he had known. And yet...

Five more years, he thought wearily, with a kind of inward sob. Five more years when he had had so many.

The heavy hand of the guardsman settled upon his shoulder, and something ruptured inside him, fiery hot, the rage of a creature that knows that it is beaten.

If there was nothing left for him than to be taken-

He tore from the grasp of the phantom and began to run. There was nothing for it now-in front of him were the gates. There was a way out, and Valjean had lost his humanity for an instant-he was a caged animal that had suddenly been freed. If the master of the zoo opens the doors to the cages, his charges will run out-but in his haste he had forgotten the boy, and that slowed him, ripping his gaze unwillingly from the gates to turn it back onto the horrors.

The youngest of their attempt was locked in a struggle with the Gypsy and was hopelessly outmatched. They were nearly indistinguishable in the shadows, only the faint light of the stars showed them for what they were, as they squared off, circling, standing ground, trading blows. A vicious strike was done to the head of the phantom, and he turned enraged, seizing the smaller man with a silent roar. The convict twisted in his hands, but succeeded only in tighten the death-grip held on him as Javert forced him to the ground, one hand reaching for his cudgel.

His hand was closing upon it when Valjean launched himself upon him.

The Gypsy came electrically alive beneath him, fighting fiercely to regain his feet. Valjean would not let him. He pinned him with his body, and turned his head to the other convict, his eyes blazing with a sudden, authoritative light.

"Go," he said in a low voice, and the young man trembled, uncertain. He had drawn his little knife. Valjean struggled with the last of his waning strength to keep the Gypsy subdued, but such strength as it was was fading-Javert had begun to gain the upper hand, a moment more and he would be free. Desperate, Valjean turned to the young man again. "Do not wait for me," he ordered sharply, "You must g-"

A glancing blow caught Valjean upon the side of his head, and he staggered, losing his grip upon Javert. Had Valjean been at his full strength, he would have easily stood the victor, but the combination of chill and exhaustion had tempered his blows. He was weakening and the cudgel had been freed, that cudgel that was like the sword of Saint Michel, and he looked into the eyes of Javert as a brave man looks into the eyes of a lion that is about to devour him and saw only the shining of personal triumph, the dark eyes fixed and gleaming. He watched the cudgel sweep down slowly, the cudgel that was meant to only strike once, once so he might be carried away, once so that he might have been saved- and he closed his eyes.

There was nothing.

Valjean's eyes snapped open, expecting any moment that final, crushing blow that would send him spiraling into the darkness. It never came. Javert was still stretched above him, the cudgel held above his head, but the blow had never descended. The blade of the knife was buried hilt-deep into his side.

The cudgel fell harmlessly from loosened fingers. Valjean lifted his head, breaking that unbearable gaze, to find the younger convict who was starting and fretting, as if he could not believe what was that he had done.

"Go," Valjean whispered, turning back to Javert. The Gypsy was close to losing consciousness, his body no longer under his command, but those eyes continued to gaze into Valjean's, solemn and strange, as the blood pattered down unregarded by either man.

And then something in the dark eyes dimmed, and Valjean watched him fall away.


	5. In which Valjean makes a decision

The Gypsy had collapsed on top of him. It took nearly all of Valjean's fading strength to hoist his weight far enough to free himself, but his mind was far from his own suffering. Ignoring the pleas of his aching body, Valjean slowly turned over that still and shadowed form in the moonlight. Not a twitch, not a motion, not a breath issued from Javert, and his face, caught in glimpses, was serene and silent. His hair had been loosed in the struggle, and fell about his head and shoulders in a halo, framing that face that had more akin to a churchyard angel or a Grecian hero than to a fallen guardsman. Valjean crawled painfully closer and placed his hand upon his chest, searching for the patient thud of his heart, his heart that was like footsteps upon the flagstones of Toulon. He gazed at the man that must be dead, the man of such fire, such fear, such conviction, and closed his eyes against the sight.

It was only the smallest of sounds that jolted him from his thoughts.

Breath rasped from between the parted lips.

Valjean turned his attention to the knife and gripped the hilt, that knife that was so deeply sequestered. He hesitated. He was no physician, and had no idea what damage had been done. Removing the blade could very well kill him rather than save him-but why, to court the idea, should he save him? This man was the only thing that stood in the way between Valjean and freedom. Was he not the Gypsy, the phantom?

When the dark eyes finally opened, they were so misted and distant that Valjean doubted that he had seen him. The parched lips moved, forming the words as if chiseling a message from stone.

The message was this:

"Kill me."

Valjean looked at that helpless figure that lay before him and jerked, realizing the full implication of that statement.

He released the knife.

"Well played," the pitiful figure observed. "...Drawing it out?"

"I will not kill a helpless man, " Valjean stated firmly, "A man that has done no wrong-"

The ghost that had been Javert did not answer as to his innocence or guilt.

"24601," he whispered, "if you spare me...you will stay in Toulon."

The convict gazed down at that silent, suffering face and understood. Saving Javert, alerting the guards that were undoubtably on their way, would accomplish nothing but his capture. If Javert lived, the escape would have been foiled, it would be back to the quarries, back to the lash. If Javert lived, and regardless, he managed to gain his freedom, so much worse the bargain. They were tied together by an unbreakable bond that would not alter until the death of one or the other. And it was then that Valjean comprehended the true horror of what Javert had been proposing. For what was Javert without Valjean?

And what was Valjean without Javert?

The death of the other-once more his gaze strayed to the dagger that shuddered with each tortured breath. One thrust and he might have been freed forever. But it was a decision that could never be made. They had gone too far. They had lost too much.

Again, the voice rasped out a mockery.

"Kill me."

"I will not."

"Then if you wish me alive...call for the guards."

Valjean looked down at him sharply. The faintest of smiles had formed upon the ashen face, shocking in its displacement.

"What then, Javert?" Valjean whispered, watching the corner of the Gypsy's lip curl scornfully at his name.

"Shall you die to preserve my freedom?"


	6. In which Javert cements his convictions

Javert drifted. He did not know where it was that he lay, nor of the events that surrounded him. His normally perceptive mind was dulled by an unconscious stupor, the keen eyes shut tightly and blind to the world. Not a movement, not a sound escaped him, and he slept the sleep of a man with nothing to hide and no questions to answer, that sleep that is blessed by the order of heavens.

Better then, that he believed this. Let him rest, for the world outside had blackened his purpose, in the machinations of the universe all that was seen and unseen had been altered. The very stars had shifted, grown dark, sightless and cold. Had he awoken at that moment, had he recalled, he would have felt very much a sailor that had lost his way, his heavenly compass failing him. He would have been a stranger in a land that grew ever the stranger. All of these fears would have been his, had he been awake.

Javert slept on.

His mind was at ease, and he felt himself to be redeemed, without knowing that he felt it. Every so often, the darkness that held him would lift, and he would understand what it was that happened. A shard of uncertainty had wedged its way into that most steadfast of hearts, cutting through those inward convictions that would ever crack but never shatter. The darkness had become shallower, freeing him from its gravitas and pull, and a thousand tiny recognitions poured in through the shallows.

The path that had been clear had been obscured again.

He tossed to his side, splinter of agony worming its way from the wound. For a moment, he scrabbled as a drowning man, instinctively turning onto his back to relieve the pain, his eyes moving restlessly behind tightly closed lids. The pain came again, deeper, more insistent, and jerked unceremoniously into wakefulness, he broke into the waking world as if submerged under water.

The dark eyes snapped open into the light, and they sought to connect with anything to determine his bearings, waiting for his head to clear. He was in the prison infirmary. Under that deduction and the obvious fact that he had been wounded, that could mean only one thing: his wound had been too grievous to allow him to be carried back to his quarters. He ascertained by the insistence of the pain that it was recent, and as the infirmary, as indeed the entirety of Toulon, was still bathed in moonlight, that it was the very night of the incident. He remembered vague details of the incident itself-he had been chasing convicts that had been ill-prepared and stupid, making their predictable run towards gates that they had little hope to scale. He had caught the obvious suspect, who had escaped him briefly and had done battle with another-had very nearly subdued him when-

The dull ache in his head finished this penultimate understanding more eloquently than any memory. He had been struck in the head and wounded in the side. What had occurred when he was out of commission? No matter his injury, what of the convicts? Did they manage their escape as he lay bleeding upon the stones? Faces without identification floated before Javert's line of vision. Grievously wounded or not, his mind had never ceased taking copy, but for all his observation, only a single number anchored itself into his brain.

24601.

Javert did not remember the conversation that had passed between them, the fear, the risk. He did not remember the terror that had held in the eyes of the convict as his consciousness had faded, or how the convict had waited with him only to be carted away in chains. He knew only that 24601 had been the last man with him before he was lost to the world of the waking. Did he run then, was he under custody?

Did he bear the knife himself?

He could not remember.

But he knew that 24601 had been with him when he succumbed, and in a moment of savage bewilderment, he questioned why he still lived. The convict must have bolted like a deer after, Javert thought firmly, shutting his eyes against the pain. He must have thought me dead, like the others. Perhaps he heard the report of a musket and thought a slice across my jugular a wasted effort. There was no way of knowing, and it was of little importance.

He was alive, and as long as he drew breath, he would uphold the sacred order of Justice. The fugitives would be found, and they would answer for their actions. The world would go on spinning upon its axis, and the Law would be upheld-

What a little thing it is, he wondered, this sacrifice of mine, when so many greater men than I have fallen in its service! I am a servant of the Law, and the Law will be protected and justified, my life has been saved for this purpose and this purpose alone. The light of order shall shine on within me-what then, a little pain?

He lay upon his narrow cot, sweating away his agony, a cry upon his lips and exultation in his heart.


	7. In which Javert requests a change

But the pain-fever had broken, and cold reality set in in the morning. There was much that had to be done.

Javert stood in the office of the warden, eyes humbly averted, stance akin to parade rest and close to an apology, and waited to be called upon. His hat, retrieved from his quarters, was clasped in his hands, and the shoulders were slumped slightly forward, as if under some terrible weight, the only indications of some inner injury or turmoil. His heart fluttered with anxiety, and he focused on keeping his face smooth from showing any discomfort. Better yet, that he seemed to have belonged there, the watch-dog called to heel at the feet of his master, and it was with a wretched pride that he stood there at all, knowing of his failure.

It had taken quite a few moments to gain an audience with Monsieur Depardieu, the warden, especially as the news of his attempts had ricocheted livelily between the guards in the hours since his confinement. That confinement in the infirmary had certainly not been voluntary, and Javert considered it, above all, a profound waste of resources. What did it matter, his discomfort? He could stand, he had failed, and he would do penance. The guardsman whose medical training had granted him the dubious title of sawbones had been contacted, had wanted to keep him there for days yet, as it was uncertain how much damage he had suffered at the hands of the escapee convicts. It had taken almost fifteen minutes of spirited debate and veiled intimidations for Javert to gain his freedom, granted only that he not tamper in any way with the bandages, and that he would return immediately to the infirmary once the audience had been concluded. So it was that Javert stood at last before the warden, fiercely contrite, and burning to have come so far only to falter as he had feared and suspected.

The warden, Depardieu, watched the young man over the tops of his spectacles. Etienne Javert was still a boy, Depardieu considered, although outwardly a man, and his soul had not hardened to the extent of his body. He had watched with not a little awe as the Gypsy entered his office savagely defiant to his expectations, his brow heavily bruised and a swath of white bandages visible through the collar of his shirt. A uniform greatcoat hung loosely on those broad shoulders, and wounded as he was, the Gypsy had not the time to clean the wool of his own blood. So it was that he stood, eyes resolutely downcast, daring a comment as to his appearance.

He waited, far more a statue than a man, and Depardieu knew that if he failed to address him, he would stay on until his weakness felled him. Deeply engraved upon the heart of the Gypsy was a respect for all and any authority, but this audience was a special case. It was Depardieu who had forgiven him his parentage and had given him his sanctioned purpose. It was Depardieu that had elevated him above the beasts that he guarded, and at a word from his lips, Depardieu knew that Javert would have thrown himself from the watch-tower rather than cause him inconvenience or offense.

So it was with compassion that he called the young man's name, and watched him stand to swift attention. The boots clicked together sharply.

"Monsieur," Javert stated humbly, his voice gravelly from exhaustion. Depardieu smiled at him, hoping to ease that rigid stance, that fiery gaze, but was met with only stone-faced neutrality.

"Young man," he began softly. The youth attempted to stand even straighter, thus addressed in return, but his wound prevented him. Failing this, he bowed his head.

"Etienne," Depardieu murmured, using his given name, and when the dark eyes rose to meet his, he was stunned by the raw pain in their depths, before decorum rendered them blank. The eyes dropped again.

"If Monsieur Depardieu will permit it, Javert," Javert responded softly. His tone was vaguely interrogative. It sought only to request, Monsieur, if Monsieur would permit it, the use of his family name over his given one. However, if it pleased Monsieur to call him by his given name, then he would do nothing to prevent it.

The warden gazed at that bowed head, those troubled eyes.

"Very well, Javert," he responded easily. "Why have you requested this audience with me? It is true that I had requested your presence, but only when you had been attended to-"

"No," Javert said simply, and then sought to temper that statement further. "If Monsieur will permit it, there are far more important things to attend to then to my comfort. Six convicts attempted an escape last night-"

"This I am well aware of," Depardieu cut him off gently, "as it is my duty to oversee them." He watched with detached fascination as the young man attempted to re-step what he had considered a grievous error.

"Forgive me, Monsieur," Javert replied quickly, aghast, but there were greater things to discuss than his own hateful impertinence. He struggled between his need to apologize, and his need to delve into the heart of matters, and with limited time, he chose the latter. "Monsieur, the convicts, " he began, relentlessly staring at the carpet, "I attempted to pursue them, but became compromised, and I regret to say that I was not able to prevent their escape."

He took a measured breath. "That is why I have requested the audience, that you, Monsieur, were so generous to grant me. I request immediate dismissal from my duties in Toulon."

Depardieu exhaled the breath that he had not been aware of holding. They had finally maneuvered onto level ground.

"Of course, Javert," he responded, surprised, "you have been dismissed from your duties until you are well-"

The young man shook his head wretchedly.

"If you will forgive my impertinence, Monsieur, I do not think you understand," he stated softly. The hands that gripped his hat were white with tension. "I request immediate, permanent, dismissal from my duties in Toulon."

"Permanent," Depardieu echoed hollowly, hardly believing what it was that he heard. His mouth set into a hard thin line. "Javert," he addressed him, slowly, carefully, "all six of the convicts have been rearrested. They are to be punished to the full extent of the law. You have performed admirably in the line of duty. You have been wounded in-"

"I failed in their arrest ," Javert murmured miserably.

"You would have laid down your life rather than forsake your duty-"

"Monsieur, I have failed in my duty-I have failed you-"

Depardieu, about to counter, paused. This strange, severe, young man was trembling, and his dark eyes glinted with something near to tears as he struggled to retain his composure. The mask cracked briefly-

"Please."

"Very well, Javert," Depardieu intoned steadily. "I shall relieve you of your duties-"

The shoulders of the boy seemed to sag with relief.

"-as you have been promoted."

Javert stood, rigid with shock. "But Monsieur," he hissed, "you cannot-"

"I can, and I will. Captain of the Guard. After you are well. Your shifts will be reassigned and the decision stands as final."

Depardieu watched as the young man struggled violently with himself, between disobedience of a superior's order and retainment of personal integrity. Javert bowed painfully from the waist and turned, stiffly, to take his leave, his steps slow, unwilling, and uncertain.

-I am a servant of the Law, and the Law will be protected and justified, my life has been saved for this purpose and this purpose alone. The light of order shall shine on within me-

And from deeper within, an agonized howl turned to speculation, measured, reptilian.

-But if again I fail-

The warden closed the door behind him.


	8. In which Javert comes to a conclusion

Doubt had begun to poison the very heart of Javert. Insidiously, it crept, thickening his blood, weakening his thoughts, whispering in his ear with its sibilant tongue. Such sweet caresses turned vicious only in proof-those treasured monsters. And like a child does, each man tells himself a story in which he is the victor, a story well crafted and joined, repeated so often that it is the sound of the words that comfort rather than the meaning. The most wretched of creatures, to steel themselves against what might be the veracity of depravity, tell themselves such tales, as a drowning man grasps at driftwood. Without purpose, a man might survive, as a man may survive upon sips of water and offal gathered from the street, but that cannot be called a life. Even the forsaken know this, and as such create a grander purpose, something that would make their suffering worthwhile, or even noble, every swain thinking himself the protagonist painted by some tragedian's pen. They do this for one reason, and one reason alone: that they could not otherwise bear the horrors.

Javert had believed that it had been Depardieu that had raised him from his baser nature and anointed his brow, had given him the very authority to reign and control what had yet defined him, but it was his own need for purpose that fanned the flame. There must have been more-more to life than he dared not define. Such thoughts dogged his steps. Javert did not forgive, and therefore could not forgive himself, but his mind had twisted elusively to grant him that all-needed purpose. He was beyond the struggles of human nature, he was the Law, servant and personification. Behind the mask of his duties, where could Etienne survive? His past had become like a terrible dream-long gone and scare remembered-for what ever had occurred to him had happened to another boy in another time.

Within that savage heart struggled the need to control his destiny, to be more than chaff floating upon the wind to destinations- he knew not where. To accomplish these ends, Javert took no other God but the Law, with Veracity as its prophet and ending, Such things as good or evil-those heady polarities of morality for which battles had been waged- meant little, for the Law was good. In his need for purpose, Javert had begun the transformation into that which he so hated, had turned his face unknowingly from truth to create two falsities in black and white. Javert was to be the hero or the villain, the sainted or depraved. By light of day, his orderly mind would not stray to this, but at night, when the stars would rise, mocking him with their clarity, their effortless purpose-

He was sublime, protected, disciplined, above the men that he watched by intrinsic worth that contrarily demanded so much effort. He was pleased with his strength, admired his convictions, but would have never admitted this personalization of his duties, would had called himself virtuous for rebuking self-awareness. He was arrogant, but it was the arrogance of the perfect disciple, for all his strength, Javert would never transcend his essential servitude-he served the Ideal. The innocent hypocrite served that which he sneered at in religious men, in the more lionized of revolutionaries, but believed in the most impossible and insidious Ideal of all-the essential fairness and perfection of that which is created by Man.

He is damaged, imperfect, and unworthy, he is doomed eternally to failure, he is damned by his birth and upbringing to fall as his kind have fallen before him. That was the hardness that so characterized the Gypsy, the eternal truth that Javert had sensed with wonder the instant he had stepped into Toulon. What could be more suited then, to have a gypsy lord over the convicts? They were cut of the same cloth, damned by action or by birth to be less than other men. Perhaps that had been true but now...

He would never be like them, Javert thought in desperation, he had made a decision as to his fate-


	9. In which Javert makes a decision

At night, when the sawbones had packed his bags, and the moon was high, Javert was free to walk the passageways of Toulon.

It was the promenade of a saint or a madman. Where was the greatcoat? Folded neatly upon the infirmary bed that he had vacated. Where the hat, the signal of office? Upon the greatcoat. He walked on in shirt, breeches and boots, barely noticing the cold, the wind that bit at his back, his dark eyes open and empty. But for all this madness, the boots upon his feet shone like mirrors.

He was a man held by restraint-but just barely.

His terrible march slowed as he entered the building where 24601 had been housed.

The convict had been near dead from exposure and exertion-and yet protection from the wind and a handful of straw was all the care afforded to him?

The dark man stalked past cells, past convicts sleeping in the straw, and paused before the last, his lips moving as he read the number of the notice upon the door. The burning gaze dropped. Javert's eyes roved restlessly over that solid form, so hatefully innocent in its oblivion, and felt an impossible weariness set its weight into his heart. Valjean had been near dead when Javert had had him placed in the infirmary, and though lucid enough to fight and to speak during the escape-

The convict lay unmoving, Javert thought hollowly, perhaps he was too late. But how easy an escape! He nearly envied him, that he would be left to so simple a fate.

Aware of being watched, the convict stirred against the straw. Slowly shaking off the dredges of sleep, he raised his head and shockingly, unimaginably, he smiled.

"Javert," he whispered, almost tenderly. "You live."

The very obviousness of this statement rankled the Gypsy more than he could express, and he clung eagerly to this, granting the convict a curt, impatient nod.

"You will come with me," he said expressionlessly.

Valjean struggled to keep his eyes open, not understanding the words. He had already succumbed to death-Toulon had lost so many. For what reason was he drawn to the light? "Why?" he whispered faintly. "Why would you spare me?"

There was a moment of considered silence and then-

"I cannot convict a corpse."

Valjean closed his eyes in irritation. "Then leave me where I lie, Javert."

"You will come with me," the dark figure repeated, unaffected.

"Under what authority?"

"Mine."

The warm brown gaze opened suddenly, and turned with a new expression to that grim and grave figure that was shivering in the cold. With one simple, practiced motion, Javert opened the door of the cell, and there were no barriers between them.

"Javert," Valjean murmured distractedly, "your coat-"

"Come."

The voice was steady, irresistible. It was not to be disobeyed. Valjean staggered unsteadily to his feet.

Once more, Valjean fell into the arms of the Gypsy, who had rapidly closed the distance between them. From far away, he could smell the lingering scent of wool, of bandages, the hint of his sweat. The patient heart beat as if it intended to go on forever-it belonged to a man too obstinate to allow anything else. He was so caught upon his observations that he barely noticed as he was partially supported, one strong arm anchoring across his shoulder, the other hooked about his waist. The two men continued on, one helpless, one wounded, half walking, half stumbling towards their destination.

Javert helped Valjean to a cot in the infirmary, and removing them from his breeches' pocket, clicked shackles about the wrists of the convict so that he was securely restrained. He threw a rough blanket over him almost as an afterthought.

Valjean drifted, in that timeless place between waking and sleeping, and Javert stayed with him, beholden at his bedside like a guardian angel, only lacking serenity. The Gypsy had a preoccupied air, restless, unsettled, his dark eyes filled with an emotion that could not clearly be expressed.

When Valjean woke in the morning, the young man had gone.


	10. In which Valjean remembers

Valjean woke, slowly, reluctantly, his muscles luxuriating in the meagre warmth of the blanket. His mind was blunted from sleep, and he stretched, hesitantly, carefully, feeling the strain of the escape and of his ordeal in the cell relaxing away as if by gifted hands. For an instant, he drifted back to that sense of half-waking, memories rising unwittingly to mind like beasts from the deep, memories so vague they seemed partly to have been pure fantasy woven from a beleaguered brain-a dying man's last luxury. But if these were dreams, from what cruelty did they contain so much pain, the stricken figure lit by moonlight, the huge dark eyes, glittery with shock and confusion, that lingered upon his in the darkness and seemed to question-why? To what end would such men be brought? The savage priest, the pious savage-how he thought and how he wondered at the strangeness of this man, Javert, this man that had been so certain of his death-a death with grace or meaning-and yet still dared. His eyes had been agonized, desperate, and afraid, but to the last they carried a challenge, the final shred of dignity for a man who bled out his life upon the stones unregarded and unmourned. The certainty in his gaze was made more poignant even then by the mere suggestion of hope-for an instant, the dark eyes had softened, and Valjean had heard those two words, the words that had been murmured at the first, and then harshened into an order at the second-as neither of these, but a plea. The dark eyes that lingered above his in that final instant had been the frightened eyes of a boy and they pleaded to him-

Kill me, whispered Etienne without words, kill me so that I may exemplify some purpose. Let me bleed away my life upon the stones that I have walked! Sensing the refusal of his murderer, the horror that shone in plain proof upon the face of Valjean, the dark eyes had hardened as far as they were able.

Let me die upon this ground, Javert expressed, without knowing that he expressed it. It is only right, and then make your escape! For even if you escape Toulon, you shall never escape Toulon. You will always be a murderer. You will always be a thief.

Valjean had watched misery and pride battle for mastery across that young face, that young face that sought to goad him to murder through the weak power of words, and felt pity rise in his heart for this remarkable adversary, this ruthless creature brought so far and so low. The curl of that lip at the sound of his name-for how many addressed him as such? How many called him by his name to his face, he who was so used to terror and whispers? This creature, this immovable object, this automaton, was a man, and a man that had been dying. His head had fallen to the side as those dimming eyes turned to Valjean's once more, as if determined to watch the final blow at the cost of his life-and then the fading brightness, like a candle brought to its gutters, flickered, flickered, and then went out.

Valjean did not now how long he sat with Javert after the first desperate cries for help had torn from his throat. His attention was fixed on that grey, silent face, the forehead as hot as stoked coal, the callused hand like a block of ice. Javert had not moved, not when Valjean had felt his pulse, weak beneath his hand, not when those first sharp cries had been swallowed up by the night. Valjean called for the guards, he called for anyone. When no one came, he had braced himself and, praying that his quick action would be rewarded with recovery, pulled the knife slowly from the wound, staunching the sudden gush of blood. He felt for the pulse again, and this time felt nothing.

Exhausted, Valjean managed one final, faltering cry, his mind reeling at him for giving away his final chance for freedom for a man who had pursued him, who was most likely dead. Shivering pitifully, a final idea as to his own survival occurred to him and he crawled closer to the still figure of the Gypsy, and slipping beneath that greatcoat, like a hound that lies at the side of its master, sought to benefit from his waning warmth.

That was how a search-party of guards a few minutes later had found them. Valjean, for his grievous error in alerting the enemy, was carted off in chains. Javert had been was rushed to the infirmary, laid out on the cot where the convict now rested.

Valjean-24601-had saved his life.

Javert knew nothing of it. Had he known, he would have assumed that the convict had been setting him up for greater disaster. Javert had saved Valjean in return, from a miserable death in his cell, but he had thought it a singular action. There were no debts to be payed, no reason to regard the prisoner with an iota of affection. He had spared 24601, Javert would have convinced himself utterly, for a single purpose, and that was that a dead man would not benefit from a wise and just ruling. The young man did not believe in reform, but he did believe in punishment. Despite those strange misgivings that he had felt in passing, he had hardened himself to his duty. 24601 must be made an example of, and for that he must be alive.

Valjean did not yet understand this idea of duty. For him, the rescue had been no less daring than the actions of an errant knight, it was the return of an unasked for debt-Javert, he felt, had understood the bond between them-that bond that could not be severed without the death of one or the other. His life did not belong to the Gypsy, and Javert's life belonged to no one-but he saw it as a just repayment, unexpected, dazzling, and suspicious. But it was the last stirrings of the boy he had been, before Toulon and Justice had so claimed his soul. It was proof of the Gypsy's heart-it could not be a trick. For when asked of what authority did he pull Valjean from the clutches of death, he did not answer by the authority of the warden, or by the authority of the Law- he had answered that it was by his own.

The Law, Javert would have protested had that point been drawn, what I am, so is the Law. What the Law is-so I am. If it is by my authority, so it is by the Law's etc-but it was a feeble argument.

Valjean did not remember much following the night of his remarkable deliverance. He did not know that Javert sat in silent vigil by his bedside, his eyes hooded with exhaustion, his hands clasped tightly before him. He did not know that that burning gaze viewed him with equal parts irritation and wonder, or how Gypsy had stayed with him long until after he was sleeping.


	11. In which two men have an argument

Valjean did not know how long Javert had been gone, but he had returned in due time, slowly closing the door behind him. The young man was dressed in splendid uniform-gone was the greatcoat soiled with his blood, the thin boots, the shabby hat that had been cared for so carefully. Instead he stood as if he had grown several inches, a marvelous new greatcoat swirling about him in mysterious eddies, his hat and boots gleaming. Every button on the uniform glittered in the unremarkable light, as if they had been polished that very morning. They probably had been. The face of the Gypsy was still drawn, still ashen, and there were dark circles under his eyes that were rather worrying, but he looked far better than he had since Valjean's thwarted escape. For all these details, however, it was the insignia that had caught the attention of the convict as it gleamed heartlessly upon his chest-

"Captain of the Guard," Valjean exhaled in a wretched whisper. "But Monsieur Renaud-"

"Monsieur Renaud has been reassigned," Javert replied, once again catering to the obvious. His eyes were cold and steady as they gazed at Valjean, only the faintest flicker of inquiry betraying himself as a man. "Do not tire yourself with matters that do not concern you. You will rest, and you will eat."

Valjean glanced to Javert incredulously, only to have him nod at the end table near him. A dry section of bread had been deposited, a glass full of water. "Did you bring it to me?" he questioned vaguely, not able to reconcile the image of Javert in bright uniform carrying bread for a convict.

"Eat," Javert ordered briskly. It was as if he hadn't heard.

Valjean obeyed under that merciless stare, taking a small bite of the bread. It was like gnawing into a stone. He hesitated, unprepared, or unable to accept even this rudimentary kindness, like a dog that had been kicked too often and too well.

"Why feed me?" Valjean hazarded mildly. "You know that I cannot work-"

"Are you irrevocably stupid, Valjean?"

Valjean looked up to him, eyes wide. Javert had thought the expression at the insult, not considering that the convict had heard many and much worst insults in his time. He had not even realized the slip his tongue had made.

Valjean slowly shook his head in reply.

"Good," Javert stated. "You must build up your strength."

"For what purpose?" Valjean replied, irritated, his gaze locking with that of the phantom. "You, who do nothing without reason, have saved the life of a man whom you deem irredeemable. You consider that he is damned forever by his actions, and that nothing else can come from him but perfidy and lies-"

The mask of Javert had loosened briefly, and for an instant Valjean was struck by the expression in his eyes, honest and cold-but it was as if the floodgates had opened and nothing could stay him-

"-And yet you change the fate of a man who had accepted his fate," Valjean went on relentlessly, "you bring him into a place of protection and give him warmth, food, a roof over his head-for what purpose Javert? What exists in you save the cold hand of the Law? Was it the grace of the Law that has spared me? Or you?"

Javert tightened his jaw. "Justice is better served with you alive-"

"So you have saved me from death for a greater fall-"

"-24601, you broke the Law-"

Valjean paused for one terrible instant. When his voice came again, it was barely a whisper.

"Not only that, Javert, I broke your law."

At these penultimate, damning words, the dark eyes shattered all their defenses, the pain in them had deepened into an agony that he could never comprehend or express. For the first time, Valjean had been clearly granted a view into the heart of Javert and he thought he understood. He saw a boy that had been beaten. He saw himself in the reflection of that mirrored gaze, and thought that he knew the manner of this man, this man who was as good as he professed, and as misguided as he was certain.

Javert gazed at the convict, unable to tear his eyes away. Those eight horrific words professed the Law and himself to be separate, and his purpose to be a lie. Torn, confused, and desperate, he silently asked the convict the same question that had bound them on this journey-he knew not where.

Why did you not kill me, the dark eyes asked, helplessly, hopelessly, and Valjean knew only one answer, the answer that was true.

Because you are Javert.

Why did not leave me, the convict's wide brown gaze questioned, beyond pity, beyond anger, as the young man before him fought to keep his composure, a young boy in splendid uniform trying to deny so desperately that he had anything so human as a heart, anything so pedestrian as pain. The Gypsy struggled and he lost, and whilst his mind proclaimed each act committed in the name of Justice, those guileless dark eyes reflected the truth.

Because you are Valjean.

For another instant their gaze held.

It was Javert who looked away.


	12. In which those same two men recover

Javert-good servant that he was- had bowed his head before the authority of the Law. His wound had been healing gradually, but well, and every day he walked with surer step. Although the warden had requested a longer time to heal-he knew full well the notorious stress that Javert's new duties would demand-he had realized after many audiences, after many conversations, that Etienne Javert would sicken further if torn from his purpose.

There is a knowledge well known among those that drive animals, and that is that a horse or dog, injured from its labour, might die all the faster if cut from its traces. Such a beast would drag itself to its place, before sled, before cart, and wait expectantly to be allowed to do the thing for which it was made until death stilled it forever. Depardieu knew the extent of that wound, of that weakness that the young man so patiently bore. To give Javert back to the Law so soon after the incident might very well kill him, but every day taken from it killed him all the faster. He had grown listless and grey, the dark eyes seeming to stare at nothing. More troubling yet was the remarkable passivity which with he bore his medical care, directly following the audience he neither raged nor fought, patiently tolerating the hand of their makeshift doctor. The remainder of the day preceding the deliverance of Valjean, he had permitted poultices and bandages, and even allowed himself a little food. Despite the easiness of this Javert under their care, this gentleness terrified the warden more than he cared to admit. If he was taken a few more days from what he had considered his sovereign purpose, the man would die-like a lame work-horse that had been pulled to the side. Better to allow him take up work again, to die in the traces if he must, heart-easy and content.

But Javert did not die. After the title of Captain of the Guard had been granted, and his shifts finalized, he became possessed with an extraordinary vigor. The ashen pallor, so ill at ease with the caramel of his skin, had lifted, and his sinewy body, which had become emaciated, became merely gaunt. He strode as he always had, lifting his head ever the higher, a fighting dog whose injuries had been healed and could battle anew. Those that caught that speculative, burning gaze could only turn away with a shudder-Javert had returned, in all his terrible gravity and authority-and had been transfigured.

The lash would fall upon the backs of the convicts by day, the orders would be given to the guards at night. Between his workings at Toulon, he would oversee Valjean in the infirmary, who by every day grew stronger despite the clumsiness of his care. This pleased Javert. Sixteen men had died in that cold winter-five of them those convicts that had attempted their escape. Javert thought nothing of them. He had their ringleader in his grip, and there was something beyond neutrality, beyond the need to see him punished exactly as his crimes demanded, something closer to a doomed love than hatred, but carrying both properties. Etienne Javert-for all his striving for perfect indifference except to the Law- was a young man, and passion runs hot in the blood of young men, channeled to go where it will.

In all of us, there is much good and much evil, and Javert was no exception. He would fall as all great men fall when their passions overrule their judgement. But that was the beauty of the Law-it would save him from a single sleepless night, from the horrors of what he had done, what he was about to do. Had Javert been a religious man, he might have asked for deliverance, but failing this he had to content himself with the stars-the stars that watched so much, and said so little.

One day- he thought to himself of the stars, as he watched over Valjean-I will be like you. I will feel nothing. I will be removed, freed, transfigured-

And then the convict would shift in his sleep, and those tortured eyes would be drawn away. One last night-tomorrow, the scaffolding, the laughter, the lash. He told himself that he watched the convict because of his strength, his strength that might even now try his fetters-and if that was a lie, he knew not of it. There were many things that Javert did not understand, including the faintest sense of pity that now rose in his heart. Every day that Valjean got well, he inched closer to his punishment and to his reckoning. The convict would be broken so that he might finally understand his place beneath the heel of Society, would recant those hateful words-would never attempt an escape again.

His patient sighed, and Javert adjusted Valjean's blanket without thinking of what he did. Encroaching sleep had begun to dull his thoughts.

What a pair of men we are, Valjean-he considered faintly, for it was always Valjean in his thoughts, 24601 upon his lips when he thought that he could hear-that we have come so far, only to prove unchanging. For if you drag yourself to hell, I will cling to your heel, I will not let you go-. "

The convict's face, so innocent in sleep-but it was a lie, as all things are a lie.


	13. In which Javert has a nightmare

Javert dreams in his sleep, and he dreams of the convicts. Sometimes, it is a jumble within the cavernous passageways of his head, once his conscious mind can no longer guard them-he dreams of a gypsy boy and a stalwart policeman with Valjean's kind eyes. Sometimes, a prisoner is the guardsman, and he the convict, his uniform in tatters, his face burning with shame before the lash comes down. Above all, he dreams of the morning of the laughter and the lash, that morning that is so clear-the sunlight streaming down without warmth, the lines of convicts gathered at dawn. They are there for a show and he will not disappoint them. He takes a convict before them, his hand firmly upon his arm, the man's hands fettered before him. The procession takes a long time, before they reach the clearing formed by the bodies of their audience. He turns the prisoner to face him, and he knows that his eyes are firm and unyielding, that there is no weakness in him, no man to bargain with, no heart to break.

For an instant, a wild, pallid anger born of betrayal flashes in the convict's eyes and Javert feels a flicker of fear that he quickly dismisses, reasons away. Without speaking a word, he turns his back to him and Javert steps forward, tearing his uniform shirt without grace. He casts a cursory, practiced glance at the expanse of white skin bared before him, a lash in his right hand, and reads the crimes of the convict to the gathered crowd. But something has gone wrong-the guards have lost their respect, in every eye reflects a Gypsy, and the prisoner is mocking him without a word, with those eight words that repeat over and over again until they are lost in a meaningless cacophony of sound. The convict will not move, he will not fight, he is threatening the integrity of the Law-Javert's left hand clenches agonizingly tight, and he feels the short nails of that hand burrow crescent moons of blood into his palm -and how that hateful convict mocks him with his eyes and with his silence!

The lash falls, bloodying that broad back, and the convict rocks forward with the weight of the blow. Javert counts the strokes evenly, watching the toll of his work through a mist of white-how the convict weakens with every subsequent blow, how he shudders at the expert ministrations-the lash falling neatly into the gashes made before. It is for the good of Toulon-Javert thinks desperately, savagely, but in every strike he erases the name that has haunted him. In every strike, he sees the past that he so fears erupt in a haze of blood. By every blow he murders the gypsy boy who stood with frightened eyes and walked with hopeless step-the bruised nature of his infancy. Javert is transfigured -brightening his eyes with the certainty that is found only in prophets and in madmen. This body, this sacrifice, is offered up on holy ground-for the good of the prisoners, for the efficiency of the institution, for this bleeding husk at his feet-better that they learn before it is too late what manner of men they truly are.

But what convict lies at those gleaming feet?

Javert breaks from his reverie to scan the crowd, every prisoner is silent, many averting their eyes from the grotesque scene before them. Still breathing hard, his dark eyes gleaming with the light of the angels, Javert looks slowly down to the broken thing before him, collapsed onto his stomach in the merciless light. The fever of his transformation has left him, and a dark apprehension worms its way into his heart. Gently, gingerly, he turns the body over. That face, even disfigured, is unmistakable.

"Valjean," he whispered, still half in sleep, and the convict twisted his head towards him at the sound. The dark eyes of the Gypsy opened, bright with fear, his face struck pale with dread. He shook his head violently as if to dislodge the memory-the silence of the crowd, Valjean broken at his feet-and then contemplated his surroundings. He must have fallen asleep where he was, he considered, the uncomfortable position of his neck and the ache that followed it supporting his induction. It was near morning, and the light of an early winter sun cast its jaundiced glare over the sleeping convict, the convict who had not stirred through the entire ordeal, and Javert glanced at those closed eyes, that smile drawn up as if by some happy dream-and shuddered.


	14. In which Javert makes a mistake

"Valjean," the convict heard again, and this time it was not the half-whispered tone of a boy caught in a nightmare, it was neutral, commanding. It must have been the Gypsy. He opened his eyes and noted him there-a solemn figure still cloaked in shadow. The convict's eyes roved over that grave, unassuming face and saw nothing amiss-but Javert always saw to it that he was gone in the mornings. Why was he still there? Did he not have more important matters to attend to? It was there, pulling himself free from the dredges of sleep that Valjean noted the touches of anxiety that the Gypsy sought so desperately to hide-the white about his lips, the mirrored gleam of his eyes. The convict was certain that if he made an unexpected move, Javert would have started like a child, moving only by instinct, driven only by fear.

What had happened to the Gypsy?

Valjean, thus disturbed, sat up and was stayed by the rough hand of the guardsman on his shoulder. There was no malice in that hand, but the pressure from it clearly intended that it not be disobeyed. He glanced up to the Gypsy, and was comforted less by the determined way in which Javert sought not to meet his gaze.

"Javert," he whispered, brow furrowing in concern. At the sound of his name, the Gypsy's hand closed reflexively upon his shoulder. "Javert, are you all right?"

The dark eyes locked onto his, and Valjean's suspicions had been confirmed-something was terribly wrong.

Instinctively, his patient tore away his attention to survey the room, half expecting that it would be full of supernatural horrors, certainly nothing else would inspire such terror in the fearless young man-the man who had dared at the blade of a knife. But there was nothing in the room-the demons were Javert's own.

"Valjean," the Gypsy stated again, and then caught himself wretchedly at last. "24601." That terrified and yet utterly relentless gaze burned into the face of the convict and Valjean felt a sliver of fear wedge its way into his heart.

From what hateful place came his name at the lips of the Gypsy? This man had cared for him-he did not understand. Javert had never lied to him, had admitted it was only to aid him in regaining his strength for punishment but despite this truth, Valjean had begun to trust the Gypsy, like a beaten dog learns again to take food from his master, first with snapping, then with bared teeth, and finally with love. The wariness had faded away as the young man became familiar-gone was the phantom of Toulon when one knows of his habits, and the mystique surrounding him had evaporated almost utterly at the hands of the Gypsy's clumsy care. Despairing of the sawbones for what he considered complete incompetence from experience, Javert had insisted on caring for the convict himself, in his own rough and ready way. Sometimes, Javert would fiercely remind himself of his station, and his protection would become reluctant, his care matter-of-course. He had threatened Valjean, chastised him, bullied him into better health, but there were times, when the convict knew that he thought him asleep, that the hand that healed him became surprisingly gentle. And now, his name-his name was spoken without knowing that he spoke it-the convict was a man again-

The Gypsy that he thought of jolted Valjean into reality. "You will come with me," Javert stated quietly, his voice admirably steady despite the fear in his eyes. Valjean shook his head, puzzled, but obediently pulled himself to a sitting position, breathing a sigh of relief as the hand on his shoulder released him.

"Where will you deliver me, Javert?" he questioned breathlessly, attempting to eradicate his own nervousness with humor, "is it Judgement Day at last?"

The Gypsy did not answer him, did not even seem to hear. He stepped forward, and with two easy, practiced motions, unchained Valjean from his cot and shackled his hands before him. The cold lock of the key terrified Valjean-he was being taken from this place of safety to where-he knew not where. But a part of him, the part of him that had existed before Toulon had sought to cripple his soul, trusted the Gypsy. He trusted him not to spare him-he knew enough of the man not to expect mercy-but to be fair.

Javert pushed him, not unkindly, before him, and they began to walk. Valjean did as he was told, promising himself that if the opportunity presented itself, he might be able to make his escape. But the iron hand of the Gypsy upon his shoulder again limited this hope, dousing it in colder reality. Valjean was much stronger than Javert, of that there was no question, but the guardsman doubtlessly carried a weapon. He might have stood a chance against him even then, but Javert, like the wise hound he was, was steering him into a populated area. Strong as Valjean was, he would have been shot down by countless guards before he managed even ten paces.

Javert had steered him into a trap, a makeshift circle had been formed, the convicts under the care of their guards.

A hideous restlessness electrified the air, but Javert did not hesitate, and nor did he stop. He walked, head held high, posture erect, oblivious most of all to the prisoner that had fallen into his grip. A sharp tug on his shoulder told Valjean to stop-Javert had halted him before another guard-had watched the other guard give way before the insignia of power-but the guardsman had not been quite quick enough to hide the naked dislike in his eyes.

Valjean winced as the Gypsy's nails dug into his shoulder-but it was a gesture that was instinctive, without malice. Protection?

No.

Possession.

When the Gypsy spoke again, his voice was cold and clear-betraying nothing.

"I have need of your lash."

The other guardsman squinted up at Javert, resentment clearly shimmering in his gaze before a fear of authority wiped it cleanly away. "Didn't bring your own?" he replied dismissively. That had gotten the response he had been looking for, the dark eyes had flashed for an instant, the thin lip had curled-

"I thought it not appropriate to panic him" Javert responded icily. "You know what they are capable of-"

"Right enough," the guard edged in, almost cheerfully. That hint of sullen distaste had lightened somewhat-he had gotten the reaction that he had wanted. "What for?"

Javert looked at him as if he was simple. "To punish this convict."

"So he's the one." The look of distaste had fallen into good humour, and so did the look of good humour shift into ugly speculation. "I`m glad to hear that, I am-we had all been worrying about you, Javert-you make a fine nursemaid-"

He looked up again to see the Gypsy's reaction, and the idiotic smile that had formed upon it faded as quickly as if he had been slapped. It took the remainder of his courage to hazard another question. "Do you want me to do it, Captain?" he stated, bowing his head to avoid those fiery eyes. "Hate to get his blood on that uniform-"

"Give me the lash," Javert whispered, enunciating each word and Valjean shuddered at the sound of that terrible, sepulchral tone. The lash was handed over without another word and Javert led the convict to center of the circle.

He commanded him to turn.

"So this is where it ends, Javert," Valjean murmured, so that only his captor could hear. He squared his shoulders and turned his back. "Take your revenge."

The Gypsy was lost from the prisoner's sight with his back thus turned-he knew him only from his actions. Neatly, promptly, his uniform shirt-the shirt that Javert had given him-was torn to his waist and then from each arm, baring his back to the guardsman. Valjean could only imagine that cold gaze and what it had seen-the vulnerable pallor of his flesh marked by whiplash. Perhaps it was the memory of one of those ancient blows that caused Javert to hesitate, that caused him to take the risk that he had chosen.

Valjean could sense him moving closer, smelt the scent of the wool, of ointment, of bandages-and then that voice, low, guttural, sounded in his ear. Those that witnessed the moment thought the word exchanged was an order, an intimidation, a threat. It was none of those, but a plea, a plea that was hated even as if poured unmeaning from his lips, nearly choked away before it had been uttered. Javert had whispered into the convict's ear-what did he say?

If he had been a different man the word might have been:

"Please."

Please understand that what I do, I do not do of hate. I do it because another guard would be crueler-I do this because the Law commands that I do this-and the Law is never wrong. It does not matter what I feel, Valjean-or what I think is wrong or right. The boy who thought like that is dead, Toulon has murdered him-and what I am now-what I am now-

Javert counted, and the lash fell differently than it had in his dreams, he had reached all the way to fifteen before Valjean lost his footing. For an instant, Javert scanned the crowd, saw the averted gaze of the convicts, of the guardsmen, and then knelt to the broken husk at his feet. Gently, carefully, in an echo of Valjean's own action, he supported the convict, sensing with distaste the blood that soaked into him from the convict's wounded back. Without thinking of what he did, he brushed a lock of hair from that silent, unmoving face.

Valjean.

I had no choice-the Law commanded that you be punished-the Law commands it-I command it-

For I am the Law-and the Law in me demands to be justified-I am the Law and the law feels no pain-I am the Law and the Law holds no hate-


	15. In which Javert says goodbye

Fate had given Javert a keen mind for details, for minutia, for the nuts and bolts of everyday life, but conversely, it had neglected a faith in the fantastic. If he had remembered what it was that he had dreamt that night, the entire mask that he had constructed, that had hardened since the subjugation of prisoner 24601,would have been torn away without warning. It would have been too much to bear. He would have never admitted to himself whilst awake, there had been too many checks and balances, too harsh a leash upon his thoughts for any tender emotion to reveal itself for awake, he was Javert, and he could no longer be said to be his own man. What he did, he did out of duty, nothing less, nothing more. He had feared some darker demon in himself, something born from the hateful fragility of mankind that had driven him, but it had not come to pass, he had walked through the fire and had been transfigured. Valjean was no blood sacrifice, he too was inconsequential. Javert had convinced himself, as that horrific scene played over and over again upon the canvas of his mind, that he looked down at that ruined body and felt nothing. Nothing but the weight of what had to be done-lifted.

Javert did not sleep well the night of Valjean's punishment. He had woken with a start, clawing for purchase, chest heaving, salt wetness upon his face, inconsequential, nothing. He was fine, he was better than fine, he had proven his willingness to uphold the Law despite his own wishes, for what did the wishes matter from the Gypsy, he was not a child any longer, and could not think as a child. Javert awoke, and he rose from his bed as if still in a dream, his dark eyes fixed and staring, his hands mechanically working, tying up his hair, changing himself out of his bed-clothes and into fine uniform. All the steps, sequential, perfect, were there. The buttons done up, one by one, brilliantly gleaming, the boots turned just so to the front, the hat placed upon that sleek head with that final insolent twist that was his single mark of individuality, the big man who stepped like a shadow. The only thing amiss was his habitually tight queue, a single strand of hair escaped its grasp as he had, against all reason, no inclination to gaze into the mirror. It was enough to see the bravest man shudder-Javert had been derailed.

Derailed. The coarse hands shut reflexively, digging into his palms. It was all the account of that maddening convict. The convict had been badly beaten, but it had all been according to his crime, and after much effort had been made to heal him for the punishment. The convict would have to live-if not, what was the point of their efforts? Death was a freedom that could not be afforded to any of them, and Javert understood better than anyone, that the guardsman might also be a prisoner. Did Valjean live? He knew not if he did. He must. It was a point of obsession that his rational mind sought to combat with bizarre kindness-it was better if he would slip away in the dark, better if he was left out of his hands forever-

Valjean had been wide awake when the phantom of Toulon threw open wide the infirmary door. He had sensed him coming, long before the tread of his heavy boots announced himself, that ghastly figure by moonlight-no, he knew that he would come. There was too much of the terrier in the Gypsy, that even poisoned by his actions, he could not stop worrying at a bone, at a thread, at a trail. The phantom would come, in all his terrible splendour, and what then?

This was the natural order of things.

Under normal circumstances the Gypsy could have never been called beautiful, his features were too harsh, too patrician, too unyielding to contain any beauty or light. But he was beautiful then, with the light of the moon streaming behind the dark back, catching in his hair and illuminating past him like an accusatory finger. The light of the stars had caught in his eyes and they burned with all the certainty of the heavens, all the glories of the righteous. There was something so wondrous in that terrible figure that made it nearly impossible for the convict to draw his eyes away. He was like a man caught up completely in his destruction, like a man at the mercy of some natural force. There was nothing to do to war against it in that moment, and even caught up in its purity, in its utter neutrality, Valjean found himself in awe at this regained figure. He was Saint Michel again.

There were no words that could be said, in this strange goodbye, no words that had not already been thought, voiced, and understood. The phantom had left the doorway and became merely a shadow, his features blunted by the lack of light, steady, immovable, silent. The answer had remained-Valjean had lived, and there had been an inexplicable sense of relief that had washed over Javert-it was only right.

Nineteen years, those dark eyes that could hold no guile whispered, in the instant before he went away. Nineteen years all told in the gaol of Toulon for escape, for assault, and the mark of a criminal forever on his papers. The Law had divided Valjean and Javert eternally, forever, a widening breach that could never be bridged. They had been drawn upon this journey together, a journey that would never be ended without the death of one or the other, but they would-they must-remain apart.

Valjean had looked into those burning eyes and saw that the hope, the hope that had been so faint, so flickering and so fragile, had finally been extinguished.


	16. The savage priest and the pious savage

Years later-

The Seine is beautiful when she is angry, and it is no fault of her own. She is prone to her unfathomable moods, her heartless rages, and yet, she is capable of gentility when the storm has past, when the danger has lifted. The water had carried its travellers to a calmer destination, where the river broadens into a mockery of a sea. There, the figures rested amidst the flotsam, pulled up upon some makeshift shore, and there they lay. There is nothing glorious and noble about death, nothing romantic or true about the faces of those who have been lost. It would have been easier then, to speak of the beauty of that marble figure, that still face as it came to rest from out of the river, the eyes that had closed instinctively against the current, the lips parted slightly where the cold water had forced its way into its lungs. It is as if the figure would speak, but it is merely an illusion, the last, reflexive dying gasp as he fought as all men fight to live when confronted with the inevitability of death.

The broad chest was still and his savior watched him with exhausted, unhappy eyes, one hand still resting gently upon his chest as if in some desperate hope of redemption. He was attentive, smoothing the sodden clothing, straightening the twisted limbs. Gently, he brushed the tangled hair from the face of the unfortunate and he marvelled at the toll of the years-where the skin was once smooth it was now furrowed, where the hair was once dark it was grey-and shook his head at the sight. What then, was left of the phantom, of the scourge of Paris? There was nothing left to despise, nothing to fear.

"Javert," Valjean whispered into the darkness and the name tasted bitter upon his lips.

A spasm rippled through the body of the phantom, and relief and dread in equal measure flooded into his heart. He soothed him as the figure twitched mindlessly, purging the river water from his broken body, rasping air violently into his lungs. The fallen man's body was desperate to live, greedy for it, and he gasped into the cold night of Paris, his eyes shut tightly and immune to the weary triumph of his benefactor. "Javert," Valjean cried again, at last feeling the uneven beat of his heart against his palm. The clouded eyes when they opened were so distant that Valjean was not certain that he had heard him until that choked, wretched voice responded-

"Do you hate me?"

Valjean searched that face that was as still as death, looking for some hint of recognition. The man gave no indication that he knew, indeed, that Valjean was even there, his far-away gaze seemed to stare over the ex-convict's shoulder, hunting for some sign of light in the blackened night sky. All the stars had faded into the abyss when he had taken the tumble, when the sight of their turned faces had faded beneath the torrent of his grave. The current had borne him on and here he was-the stars had begun to reappear. One by one they glimmered hesitantly in the darkness, and Valjean watched with wonder as a smile teased the corners of the Gypsy's lips.

Had he ever seen Javert smile?

It was not the half-grimace of the self-righteous, but an honest expression of pleasure, an expression completely out of sync with the desperate situation that they had found themselves in. Javert had seen the stars in their heavens, and nodded in weary acceptance of whatever fate awaited him. Valjean would not miss a single motion,-for he was a man, and not a demon or an angel. Shuddering convulsively, Javert retched up the last of the brackish water and then lay grey-faced, wheezing, unwilling to expend any further energy. The ex-convict shook his head, and lifted his wrist, pressing his thumb firmly to feel the sluggish pulse. The numb lips of the Gypsy moved again, and his voice was fainter, weaker-"Do you-"

"Hate you?" Valjean replied softly, looking at the helpless figure before him. The Gypsy had begun to shiver upon the bank, and Valjean knew that his own soaked coat would do nothing for him. "No," he answered finally, and smoothed a strand of hair from that marble visage. "No, Javert, I do not hate you." The obsession that had driven the Gypsy had never been requited, nothing had existed upon the side of the ex-convict but a faint sense of admiration that had tempered into sadness at the tragedy that Javert had laid before him. To Javert, this admittance would be the ultimate strike against hope, against the thought that he might have mattered if only as a figure to loathe-to fear. A fiend may be a fiend, now that he had no chance for redemption-but there can be no light with darkness, no good without ill. He still might have mattered. "What would you have me feel, Javert," Valjean murmured, sensing the battle that raged within the mind of the Gypsy, that manifested itself only in the rigidity of that face, the cast of his brow. "You have hunted me, persecuted me, you have dogged my steps, but you have done it out of duty, nothing more. There is no malice in you, Javert, and what you did, you did out of neither hatred nor love. You were wrong, but you always were devoted."

"The pious savage," Javert muttered, and Valjean jerked himself out of his scrutiny, startled. The shivering had worsened and the skin about his lips had begun to be leached of color, but he had commanded enough strength of conviction to manage a hideous smile. "Saint Valjean," he rasped, opening his eyes, "would you count this forgiveness as the last of your many miracles? Are you sorry that you fished me from the Seine?"

Valjean paid little attention to the concentrated venom in his words, he was far more concerned with the chill of the skin beneath his hand, and the laboured nature of his breath. "You could have left me in my cell to die, Javert," Valjean stated swiftly, a little harsher than he intended. "But you saved my life." He saw the lips part to dart out a riposte, and then hurriedly-"You saved my life, for whatever the reason-" The silent face troubled him, and he checked the pulse again, it was erratic, and the Gypsy's face was ashen beneath the cast of his dark skin.

"Javert?"

The head lolled away loosely on his shoulders and Valjean felt a sliver of fear slide glass-like into his heart. Gently, he attempted to lift his upper body and felt the policeman's hand slip vise-like about his wrist. "Javert, there was once a Gypsy boy and tonight he is screaming," he whispered to the still, rigid figure in his arms, the Gypsy was fighting him with the last of his strength. "I can see him still-the boy who saved a convict-I can help you in return." The grip upon his wrist tightened.

"Let me help you-"


	17. The Fall of Saint Michel

It had begun to rain from the mercilessness of that blackened night sky, darkening the already sodden figures that reclined upon the bank, one in the arms of the other. They were frozen then, in that moment, Valjean's face downturned to his charge, the dark eyes wounded pits in a face pallid from exhaustion, pleading, hoping. His fine jacket, ruined beyond repair from the river and the rain lay draped loosely about his shoulders, shadowing that honest face as he lifted the figure of the policeman into his lap so that his torso was supported, his head resting over his arm. The figure in this-half embrace had fallen away, the imprint of his fingernails scouring red marks in his saviour's wrist. His head was boneless against his shoulders, his cheek resting against the ex-convict's forearm. A wayward strand of hair had fallen over his broad forehead and into his eyes, causing him to appear, for that instant, at least, intensely vulnerable. Valjean marvelled at the downfall of this ruthless predator, this man that had been so feared, and so hated, that needed him, wordlessly, needed him. This tenderness, this passivity only came from extreme circumstance-had Javert been well he would have died before permitting it.

But here, even if only out of exhaustion, he permitted a show of simple concern, from one man to another. He breathed shallowly, this pitiful, sodden creature, gazing up wearily at Valjean through slitted dark eyes. The fight had gone out of him, the dark majesty that had caused the scum of Paris to shudder in stolen boots, all that had vanished. As easy as it was to hold this shell, there was something heart-wrenching in the loss of the person he had been, despite his flaws and his mistakes. The rain continued to fall, sparkling in the iron grey hair of the policeman as if in mockery of a halo.

"Saint Michel," Valjean whispered, struck by a memory. He turned his gaze back to Javert. "Do you know that that is what the prisoners used to call you?"

This only succeeded in inspiring a brief expression of dislike upon the ashen face of the Inspector. Noting this, and thinking that the expression was connected to a physical discomfort, Valjean shifted him in his arms, and felt him immediately stiffen. There was something comforting in the fact that, even here, physically wrecked and a mere shadow of his former self, Javert could muster up enough strength to, in some small way, make his life more difficult.

"Comfortable?" he questioned, earning a faint sneer in response, and placed the back of his free hand upon his forehead. Valjean drew him closer to his own chilled body, thinking that the body heat might warm him, and watched as instinctively, the Inspector pulled away. "Inspector, you are half-drowned" Valjean murmured, "perhaps now is the time to make allowances."

"Put me...down."

"As you wish," Valjean responded, and carefully made as if to lower him, when the wretched figure in his arms tightened his grip upon his shirt, as if to retain the contact. The cold air was too much for the Inspector, and his body sought warmth despite his misgivings. Valjean understood that in a better state that Javert would have frozen to death on the bank before owing his life to a convict, but that was beyond a question. The dark eyes of the Inspector were glassy from shock, and without thinking, his own hand had snaked over to his side. An agonised moan escaped his lips. Gently, Valjean had grasped his hand , tugging it aside, and pressed his own to the site, feeling radiant heat.

"Javert," he questioned, horrified, and the policeman's large hand closed over his own, attempting to move it from the wound. Valjean pushed his hand aside again, his heart hammering in his throat, and tore the edges of his wet dress-shirt to reveal the extent of his injury. Javert must have misjudged the depth of the river, must have hit the lip of the stone jetty, or any amount of flotsam. The policeman might have already been dying from the exhaustion of the ordeal and from the cold, but this-this-

Javert watched Valjean calmly, as the rain continued to fall, mimicking tears upon that marble face. "Javert," Valjean said quietly, fighting to keep emotion from his voice. "Javert, you have killed-"

"Considering," Javert responded acidly, "that this was...an attempt at suicide...I am glad of it." The still dark eyes met Valjean's stunned gaze without cruelty. "Not...even you, with all your infinite..." he gave the final word a spin of distaste, "...mercy, can save me. This must come as quite...a shock."

Valjean held him closer, attempting desperately to combat the dying man's shivering. With nothing else at hand, he wrapped the soaked greatcoat about him and draped his own jacket about Javert like a blanket. He looked down to that suffering face, that face that asked for nothing and had given so little, and whispered, "Why?" The dark eyes opened hazily, and a sardonic twitch formed at the edge of the policeman's lip.

"So much...feeling," Javert murmured faintly. "Are you so...virtuous...that...you would mourn...your enemy...?"

"You were never my enemy."

"Then...why did you...?"

"Because you are a man."

"Nothing...more?"

"There is nothing more," Valjean responded firmly. "I would have done the same for any other. I would never have forgiven myself had I not attempted to aid you." Javert weakly shook his head.

"Selfish..."

"Perhaps."

Javert straightened in his arms, and cried out hoarsely as he repositioned himself. Valjean caught him and soothed him, murmuring nonsense, supporting him into what he hoped was a more comfortable alignment. The policeman had stopped fighting his ministrations entirely, and to move him from the area would harm him even more. Nothing could save him now-not with that horrible pit in his side, not when he had endured so much. A miraculous case might have been made if the man in question would fight for his life, but Javert was beyond fighting. It would only be a matter of time. Javert-true to his taciturn nature-was dying quietly, and all Valjean could do was keep him close, and give him as much comfort as he would accept. It was hours into the night, with Valjean near unconsciousness from misery and cold, when Javert hissed out his name. Shocked into wakefulness, he supported the fallen figure's head.

"I`m here," he murmured. The dark eyes were half-closed and glittered with some unnamable emotion. "It is all right, I think, to be frightened," Valjean stated kindly, and was rewarded with another sardonic expression that sharpened into pain.

"...wanted this..."

"I know."

"Will...you...leave?"

"Never."

The dark eyes slipped closed and absentmindedly, Valjean smoothed another errant thread from his face. His breathing was becoming even more ragged, and alarmingly, even the shivering had stopped. "Etienne," Valjean murmured, and the figure in his arms moved slightly.

"Yes, " Javert whispered in reply, and attempted his old tiger's smile. " I had almost...forgotten... that name."

"Etienne-"

Valjean waited in the heart-thudding silence that followed, waiting for another word, a twitch, a breath, or whisper. Nothing came. He reached over to press his hand upon the densely swathed chest, expecting one more beat from that obstinate heart, he could not die yet, not like this, it would be soon but not now. It could never be now, but when Valjean looked down into that still face, those closed eyes, those parted lips, he knew that his suffering was over. There was nothing then to stop him now, nothing to stop him from holding the figure closer, nothing to stop the furious tears that poured unchecked down his cheeks, not only for this senseless waste but for the tragedy that Javert had always laid before him. You could have been more-he thought savagely, but it was worse than sentiment, it was a child's prayer. Valjean held him close as he never would have permitted had he lived and he wept for the both of them. He wept for the eternal truth that binds together fates that should have never been threaded, that tied together the lives of the phantom and the convict, and he looked into the still face of the man that he once hated and revoked the lie that he had spoken.

"Because you are Javert."


End file.
